Bernie Harp had grown rather bored with all these attempts on his life. He’d lost track of how many times that big lug Klaus had swung his gun or knife at him and really at this point just wished that if he was going to kill him that he’d just do it already. He sure was playing hard to get.
Bernie felt like he’d been a dead man walking for some time anyway. His sweetheart at home probably already figured he was dead and was out cavorting with some other bachelor Waltzer, and he was likely out of a [[#|job]] at the Hellwaukee capitol as a guard as well. He’d been gone too long and Mayor Twarld, who he was paid to protect, was MIA as far as they were concerned. He knew of course that Twarld had been with him the whole time, but once they figured out how deeply Twarld was tied to the plot to kill Matthew Crawley, of all people, and that he’d been an accessory the entire time, he knew they’d have him killed and they’d put his head on a pike and mix his own red blood into the propaganda poster ink.
Really, there was no peachy outcome to this. He had become resigned to the fact that he’d die. He was on borrowed time as it was. Klaus shot at him every day to such an extent that he just rolled his eyes at this point. He’d been placed on some kind of a hell-train with a ravenous gorilla who came inches away from ripping him to shreds, he nearly got shot in the face point blank at the Fighting Phils headquarters, and some deranged woman named Arita Strinkt could’ve nearly bludgeoned him to death. Now he was at the very center of a plot to take out one of the biggest names in all of history. He was right in the middle. This would be a plot or an assassination that would shake the entire society to its core, and he just knew he wasn’t going to get out alive. How could he?
But all he was was an unwilling participant. He just did what he was told. He knew to listen to the mayor, which he did, because the mayor was someone he considered a friend. He still did, oddly. He knew to expect and appreciate the mayor’s ham-fisted and eccentric ways and figured this situation he’d gotten himself into was par for the course, just in the most extreme and out of control way possible. But the mayor wasn’t soulless. He wasn’t completely morally bankrupt. After all, he was the one who would actually spend time with Bernie. He’d let him into his office at the end of his shift some days and listen to his scratchy cassette tapes of a program called “The Shadow” with him. He’d also read about a fun game popular in the past called “Mad Libs” and relished in playing that with Bernie too. And to Bernie, these were the brightest moments in his bleak existence - the color in his otherwise colorless life. The laughter he couldn't find elsewhere. And the Mayor remembered his birthday and would remind him of it with a wrapped gift every year when even Bernie himself would forget. It was usually just an old book from his bookshelf, but a gift was a gift. Few Waltzers had taught themselves to read, but Bernie was a unique case there. He even wrote his own poetry, but nobody would ever know.
This had never been much of a life to Bernie, and Bernie knew it. He lived just to live and as a Waltzer was trained to not value his life much at all. It was ingrained in him every day, like a hammer hitting a nail, that as a Waltzer he was expendable. He didn’t question it. He didn’t fight it. He knew life was fleeting and that it would easily be snuffed out on some unexpected day. So he bided his time with little things beyond spending time with the mayor, like raising his dog Chap and remembering poems from books from the mayor’s office. Bernie enjoyed his dog but Chap was no puppy anymore and could only manage a snuggle and a tail-wag these days.
This horrific journey had brought him to some out-of-the-way bend in Madison facing a giant complex called The Fighting Phil Storage and Training Facility. He stood with the mayor, kicking his feet in the dust, as Lelo, Klaus, Marcus, Brother Patrick and Gumble walked inside. They’d come all the way from Hellwaukee to speak to Bob Vister. What they wanted to speak about was unclear to Bernie, and he realized it was unclear to them when they came out too. They exited without Gumble, and Bernie could see them staring out of the office window with a chilling intensity that made him shiver. As usual, the antagonizing then began.
Obviously, Bernie thought, their meeting with Vister had gone up in smoke, but they were too proud to admit it so they focused their anger elsewhere. Immediately, they began interrogating the mayor about paltry little things that had already happened on the journey and they threatened him and made him spit out “the truth.” It seemed to Bernie that Twarld had never been withholding the truth – they just didn’t ask the right questions.
“Who was that old man?” Lelo kept asking. He was the most reasonable of the bunch, but was still far too persistent.
“I’M ONLY GONNA ASK ONCE. WHO WAS THAT OLD MAN?” Klaus bellowed.
Brother Patrick piously kept quiet, as did Marcus, albeit with a satisfied smirk on his face.
“It was Walter Crawley for God sake. That’s who it was. Walter Crawley. They moved him to my building and I had to leave!”
They acted like they had just been let in on some big secret.
What?!
It was obvious, Bernie thought. It was no secret. If they had thought to ask him, he would’ve said it right away. They never even thought to consider he had no allegiance to the Crawley regime beyond a paycheck. Some Waltzers worshiped the hallowed ground the Crawleys walked on, sure, but Bernie knew very well that wasn’t always the case. He had no qualms selling them out, because he didn’t care for them either. Some of his best friends mercilessly mocked the Crawleys with him when they thought nobody was watching. And yet, those same people got shot in the head for being Crawley yes men. Bernie figured he was next in line at any time.
And like that, Klaus saw the sarcastic expression on Bernie’s face after the big Walter Crawley reveal and turned his gun to face him. He didn’t even know why Klaus did it. Klaus never stopped to realize that Bernie very well might have been the group’s biggest asset on the entire journey. But he pointed the gun anyway.
Bernie reflected on his relationship with the mayor again as he considered, as he had many times before, that this might finally be the time Klaus pulled the trigger. He thought of the mayor’s kindness to him that was so deeply buried underneath the slime that the group didn’t even attempt to dig through. He thought maybe it was supposed to end this way, flanked by the mayor as he watched a speeding bullet plummet into his face between his eyes before disappearing. He knew he was only one of many to the Mayor – each Waltzer guard was special to him – but the mayor was one of a kind to him, and he’d follow him off a cliff. It looked as if this time, he had.
Bernie felt like he’d been a dead man walking for some time anyway. His sweetheart at home probably already figured he was dead and was out cavorting with some other bachelor Waltzer, and he was likely out of a [[#|job]] at the Hellwaukee capitol as a guard as well. He’d been gone too long and Mayor Twarld, who he was paid to protect, was MIA as far as they were concerned. He knew of course that Twarld had been with him the whole time, but once they figured out how deeply Twarld was tied to the plot to kill Matthew Crawley, of all people, and that he’d been an accessory the entire time, he knew they’d have him killed and they’d put his head on a pike and mix his own red blood into the propaganda poster ink.
Really, there was no peachy outcome to this. He had become resigned to the fact that he’d die. He was on borrowed time as it was. Klaus shot at him every day to such an extent that he just rolled his eyes at this point. He’d been placed on some kind of a hell-train with a ravenous gorilla who came inches away from ripping him to shreds, he nearly got shot in the face point blank at the Fighting Phils headquarters, and some deranged woman named Arita Strinkt could’ve nearly bludgeoned him to death. Now he was at the very center of a plot to take out one of the biggest names in all of history. He was right in the middle. This would be a plot or an assassination that would shake the entire society to its core, and he just knew he wasn’t going to get out alive. How could he?
But all he was was an unwilling participant. He just did what he was told. He knew to listen to the mayor, which he did, because the mayor was someone he considered a friend. He still did, oddly. He knew to expect and appreciate the mayor’s ham-fisted and eccentric ways and figured this situation he’d gotten himself into was par for the course, just in the most extreme and out of control way possible. But the mayor wasn’t soulless. He wasn’t completely morally bankrupt. After all, he was the one who would actually spend time with Bernie. He’d let him into his office at the end of his shift some days and listen to his scratchy cassette tapes of a program called “The Shadow” with him. He’d also read about a fun game popular in the past called “Mad Libs” and relished in playing that with Bernie too. And to Bernie, these were the brightest moments in his bleak existence - the color in his otherwise colorless life. The laughter he couldn't find elsewhere. And the Mayor remembered his birthday and would remind him of it with a wrapped gift every year when even Bernie himself would forget. It was usually just an old book from his bookshelf, but a gift was a gift. Few Waltzers had taught themselves to read, but Bernie was a unique case there. He even wrote his own poetry, but nobody would ever know.
This had never been much of a life to Bernie, and Bernie knew it. He lived just to live and as a Waltzer was trained to not value his life much at all. It was ingrained in him every day, like a hammer hitting a nail, that as a Waltzer he was expendable. He didn’t question it. He didn’t fight it. He knew life was fleeting and that it would easily be snuffed out on some unexpected day. So he bided his time with little things beyond spending time with the mayor, like raising his dog Chap and remembering poems from books from the mayor’s office. Bernie enjoyed his dog but Chap was no puppy anymore and could only manage a snuggle and a tail-wag these days.
This horrific journey had brought him to some out-of-the-way bend in Madison facing a giant complex called The Fighting Phil Storage and Training Facility. He stood with the mayor, kicking his feet in the dust, as Lelo, Klaus, Marcus, Brother Patrick and Gumble walked inside. They’d come all the way from Hellwaukee to speak to Bob Vister. What they wanted to speak about was unclear to Bernie, and he realized it was unclear to them when they came out too. They exited without Gumble, and Bernie could see them staring out of the office window with a chilling intensity that made him shiver. As usual, the antagonizing then began.
Obviously, Bernie thought, their meeting with Vister had gone up in smoke, but they were too proud to admit it so they focused their anger elsewhere. Immediately, they began interrogating the mayor about paltry little things that had already happened on the journey and they threatened him and made him spit out “the truth.” It seemed to Bernie that Twarld had never been withholding the truth – they just didn’t ask the right questions.
“Who was that old man?” Lelo kept asking. He was the most reasonable of the bunch, but was still far too persistent.
“I’M ONLY GONNA ASK ONCE. WHO WAS THAT OLD MAN?” Klaus bellowed.
Brother Patrick piously kept quiet, as did Marcus, albeit with a satisfied smirk on his face.
They were curious about who the old man they had met in the very first hours of their journey had been, all the way back in Hellwaukee. Finally, Twarld let it out.
“It was Walter Crawley for God sake. That’s who it was. Walter Crawley. They moved him to my building and I had to leave!”
They acted like they had just been let in on some big secret.
What?!
It was obvious, Bernie thought. It was no secret. If they had thought to ask him, he would’ve said it right away. They never even thought to consider he had no allegiance to the Crawley regime beyond a paycheck. Some Waltzers worshiped the hallowed ground the Crawleys walked on, sure, but Bernie knew very well that wasn’t always the case. He had no qualms selling them out, because he didn’t care for them either. Some of his best friends mercilessly mocked the Crawleys with him when they thought nobody was watching. And yet, those same people got shot in the head for being Crawley yes men. Bernie figured he was next in line at any time.
And like that, Klaus saw the sarcastic expression on Bernie’s face after the big Walter Crawley reveal and turned his gun to face him. He didn’t even know why Klaus did it. Klaus never stopped to realize that Bernie very well might have been the group’s biggest asset on the entire journey. But he pointed the gun anyway.
Bernie reflected on his relationship with the mayor again as he considered, as he had many times before, that this might finally be the time Klaus pulled the trigger. He thought of the mayor’s kindness to him that was so deeply buried underneath the slime that the group didn’t even attempt to dig through. He thought maybe it was supposed to end this way, flanked by the mayor as he watched a speeding bullet plummet into his face between his eyes before disappearing. He knew he was only one of many to the Mayor – each Waltzer guard was special to him – but the mayor was one of a kind to him, and he’d follow him off a cliff. It looked as if this time, he had.